Vicious Cycle (M/M) - *COMPLETE*
Things are really starting to get interesting for poor Studini! But I know that this isn't all Steve has planned! Although I'm not sure Stu can handle much more...
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
Oooh. If this is one of those things that inflates or expands, then he's well and truly screwed in more than one sense of the word. I also wonder if there'll be forced exercise - sounds like that would be hell with all this stuff on and barely any air to breathe!
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - part 7
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
What are you doing?
My hearing is mostly stopped by these plugs in my ears. They’re like an itch I can’t scratch – after that one time hitting my face, I’m not going to raise my hands anywhere near my head until I’ve got those stupidly overstuffed gloves OFF the ends of my arms – so I make do with the sound of my own breathing, blood rushing in my ears and whatever sound fragments reach me from your microphone (have you switched it off?)
Then, suddenly, a tug in the middle of my chest. I raise my fists (they don’t have any option other than to be fists) to push back against your manhandling but you’re suddenly serious – none of the previous inane mockery – and that change in tone worries me enough to cooperate.
“Careful, careful. Slow and steady. Remember, your cooperation over the next couple minutes is CRUCIAL if you want to earn enough trust and goodwill for me to give your vision back.”
You walk me a few steps and position my legs apart – astride something? – and I start to growl a protest but, all of a sudden, you’re warning me I could get hurt. Fucking hell, this sounds…
Your fingers are fumbling at the front of my jacket and then they’re in my leathered butt. For fuck’s actual sake.
I’ve no idea what you’re looking for but, suddenly, you find the zip concealed in the central seam of my leather motorcycle pants, the one running from the centre of my waist at the back to just under my crotch – and you realise, within seconds, that this isn’t some sort of Houdini-emulating trick or secret pocket. Nope, it’s an extra feature I requested when I had these trousers made.
Because... well, isn't it obvious?
Awkward.
I’m fairly sure you’re going to make the situation more awkward by describing your discovery. I cringe in advance.
Your fingers are through the zip and groping inside my leathers; the only thing holding me back from taking a swinging swipe or jab, in the darkness, at where your head might be is that “cooperation is CRUCIAL” warning. It gets to me just enough that I do what you tell me.
You locate a second zip, one I didn’t know about, in the layer of rubber beneath the leather.
“All right, I’m gonna have you sit down in a second. You’ll feel some discomfort, and definitely some surprise, but don’t jerk around too much or you’ll make it worse, okay? Ready? On three. One—“
What the fuck? What the actu—
“HNNNNGGGGG!!!” My visceral scream of surprise and pain, through wool, tape and rubber, must be raising the rafters.
I’m IMPALED! By my fucking ASS!!
Oh God, this is too much! You're pushing down on me, using your mass and strength to keep me seated. I may not be able to stand up but, instinctively, I howl, paw at my invaded backside and flail at you with my boxing-gloved fists.
While my captive is distracted by the sudden intrusion in his rear, I work very quickly. First, I grab a small length of chain and connect one end to the harness (specifically, a D-ring on a strap on your lower back), and the other end to the pole that holds up the bike seat.
Next, I grab your blindly flailing fists one at a time by the wrist and force your mitted hands onto the handles of the bike. The handlebars slide right into the hollow tubes that your hands are forcibly curled around—so THAT’s what they were for! A faint click comes from them as the handlebars lock into the mitts. For good measure, I screw plates onto the ends of the handlebars, so there’s no risk of you somehow sliding your hands back off.
Am I done? You wish! I begin guiding your latex-coated feet into the specialized boots attached to the bike’s pedals. They resemble fracture boots that one might walk on if they had a broken leg —only these are clearly VERY heavy duty. A mess of leather straps, buckles, ankle braces and toe clips, designed to tightly grip every inch of the leg below the knee. I pull and yank every strap SAVAGELY, until I can see the latex warping from how tightly they’re digging into your leg. The soles of the boots essentially function as the pedals of the bike—so the movement of your lower legs is now confined to the circular motion allowed by the bike pedals.
“There! That oughta hold ya!”
I cheerily flick your visor back on, allowing you to see and assess your new situation.
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
What are you doing?
My hearing is mostly stopped by these plugs in my ears. They’re like an itch I can’t scratch – after that one time hitting my face, I’m not going to raise my hands anywhere near my head until I’ve got those stupidly overstuffed gloves OFF the ends of my arms – so I make do with the sound of my own breathing, blood rushing in my ears and whatever sound fragments reach me from your microphone (have you switched it off?)
Then, suddenly, a tug in the middle of my chest. I raise my fists (they don’t have any option other than to be fists) to push back against your manhandling but you’re suddenly serious – none of the previous inane mockery – and that change in tone worries me enough to cooperate.
“Careful, careful. Slow and steady. Remember, your cooperation over the next couple minutes is CRUCIAL if you want to earn enough trust and goodwill for me to give your vision back.”
You walk me a few steps and position my legs apart – astride something? – and I start to growl a protest but, all of a sudden, you’re warning me I could get hurt. Fucking hell, this sounds…
Your fingers are fumbling at the front of my jacket and then they’re in my leathered butt. For fuck’s actual sake.
I’ve no idea what you’re looking for but, suddenly, you find the zip concealed in the central seam of my leather motorcycle pants, the one running from the centre of my waist at the back to just under my crotch – and you realise, within seconds, that this isn’t some sort of Houdini-emulating trick or secret pocket. Nope, it’s an extra feature I requested when I had these trousers made.
Because... well, isn't it obvious?
Awkward.
I’m fairly sure you’re going to make the situation more awkward by describing your discovery. I cringe in advance.
Your fingers are through the zip and groping inside my leathers; the only thing holding me back from taking a swinging swipe or jab, in the darkness, at where your head might be is that “cooperation is CRUCIAL” warning. It gets to me just enough that I do what you tell me.
You locate a second zip, one I didn’t know about, in the layer of rubber beneath the leather.
“All right, I’m gonna have you sit down in a second. You’ll feel some discomfort, and definitely some surprise, but don’t jerk around too much or you’ll make it worse, okay? Ready? On three. One—“
What the fuck? What the actu—
“HNNNNGGGGG!!!” My visceral scream of surprise and pain, through wool, tape and rubber, must be raising the rafters.
I’m IMPALED! By my fucking ASS!!
Oh God, this is too much! You're pushing down on me, using your mass and strength to keep me seated. I may not be able to stand up but, instinctively, I howl, paw at my invaded backside and flail at you with my boxing-gloved fists.
While my captive is distracted by the sudden intrusion in his rear, I work very quickly. First, I grab a small length of chain and connect one end to the harness (specifically, a D-ring on a strap on your lower back), and the other end to the pole that holds up the bike seat.
Next, I grab your blindly flailing fists one at a time by the wrist and force your mitted hands onto the handles of the bike. The handlebars slide right into the hollow tubes that your hands are forcibly curled around—so THAT’s what they were for! A faint click comes from them as the handlebars lock into the mitts. For good measure, I screw plates onto the ends of the handlebars, so there’s no risk of you somehow sliding your hands back off.
Am I done? You wish! I begin guiding your latex-coated feet into the specialized boots attached to the bike’s pedals. They resemble fracture boots that one might walk on if they had a broken leg —only these are clearly VERY heavy duty. A mess of leather straps, buckles, ankle braces and toe clips, designed to tightly grip every inch of the leg below the knee. I pull and yank every strap SAVAGELY, until I can see the latex warping from how tightly they’re digging into your leg. The soles of the boots essentially function as the pedals of the bike—so the movement of your lower legs is now confined to the circular motion allowed by the bike pedals.
“There! That oughta hold ya!”
I cheerily flick your visor back on, allowing you to see and assess your new situation.
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
I really hope Steven gets a chance to enjoy some bondage too before this story ends! And again, poor Stu! I can't help but feel like he's going to be in for a very long evening!
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - part 8
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
It isn't until you're holding me down in this hellish seat that I get a proper sense of how powerful you are. When, finally, you shift your body weight off me and move to capturing my flailing arms, I immediately try to stand, to get myself forward and off this impaling pain - and can't. I'm fixed by something attached to... my harness?
"HHHNNGGGOOO!!"
I fight against you but you there's a click from one Everlast glove and then the other and I'm leaning forward in an oddly familiar position, the tip of that intrusion nudging at my prostate in a way that's agonising but also tantalising; as the shock of the initial penetration gradually subsides, it's starting to stir the contents of my rubber-and-leather-clad crotch.
In a fight-or-flight frenzy, I jerk and tug furiously at my hands, realising a slight rotation around a handlebar axis is the only movement available to me. When one leg is hoisted up, I try to kick out but you're already strapping it into some device and my other foot is limited to the far side of the seat, useless to reach you.
When the second leg is captured and another round of straps biting into latex and leather, the panting, growling silence of my hood is finally broken:
“There! That oughta hold ya!”
The VR feed lights up the rubbery darkness. I stop jerking my hands and feet and throwing myself around in my seat and just stare in abject disbelief.
WHAT
THE
FUCK
As the adrenaline rush starts to fade, I calm my exertions and try to take stock of my situation.
I'm on some kind of bike?
I can see the absurd leather-padded mounds of my hands, now apparently part of the contraption I'm sitting on. I'm bent forward slightly and any attempt to shuffle backwards prods my innards in a way that causes me to inhale sharply.
My collar doesn't allow me to look down enough to see the saddle but boy can I feel it.
My feet are held rigidly to a... a pedal mechanism? After a moment of kicking and wrenching at my feet, I attempt to stand up on the pedals, to raise myself off the vicious thing penetrating my rear. I quickly realise there's a chain or some such strapping my leathered buttocks down to the back of the seat.
Can't go forward, can't go back... can I potentially escape to one or other side? I'm limited by my hands apparently now anchored in front (I give them both an experimental tug then a more sustained pull) but could I lean left or right far enough to ease myself off the evil saddle-prong?
Fuck! Doing that seems to increase the sensations.
None of this makes sense. I pause for a break until the prostate spasms die down and concentrate solely on drawing long ragged breaths through my nostril-tubes. Unable to turn my neck, I glower straight ahead into the grainy monochrome murkiness, looking for you, my... is "challenger" still the right word? More like "tormentor".
Something tells me you're going to explain all of this to me in excruciating detail and - I feel an immediate spike of irritation at the thought - you're going to take great pleasure doing so. If I'm experiencing a literal pain in the arse now, I imagine it's going to be nothing compared to what's coming.
I step into your field of vision, grinning ear to ear. I clap my hands together and carry myself with the energy of someone who’s about to give a TED talk. But I’m not facing you directly—I’m facing off to the right, towards your camera, which is poised so the two of us are in frame.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome at last to the great Studini’s latest challenge: The Bike of Doom! As you can probably tell by his ostentatious outfit, he rode here to my house today on a motorcycle. Being a mechanic myself, I saw fit to make some modifications and improvements to his vehicle. Allow me to explain some of the diabolically fiendish elements that are gonna keep our little escape artist here locked up tight.”
While I speak, I walk in slow circles around the bike, continuing to cheat out towards the camera. When I’m behind you, I slap your back like a car salesman slapping the roof of a car.
“With a customized interlocking tube mechanism of my own design, his mitts have been attached to the handlebars. And thanks to the power of Everlast Powerlock technology, our little friend’s tricky fingers have been rendered completely and utterly useless.”
“The pedals are custom-designed too, with built in boots that keep one’s feet firmly planted on them at all times.”
“And last but not least, there’s the seat, which has been firmly attached to our great Studini’s ass by way of a dildo, shoved WAY up in there. He can stand up to cycle, but not enough to allow him to remove the dildo from his rear—the chain I attached earlier sees to that. Guess you can say I had him PEGGED from the moment he sat down.”
I punctuate my words by plucking the chain with my finger like a guitar string.
“Oh! I almost forgot!”
I retrieve your helmet from where it’s sitting by your clothes and plunk it roughly onto your head over the hood.
“There ya go. Safety first!”
I chuckle, knocking my fist a couple times against the helmet. I then place a hand under your chin, gripping it firmly as I bring my face down to yours, close enough that you can smell my breath through the tubes in your nostrils.
“Now, I have a little confession to make… I absolutely. Fucking. HATE. Bikers. Motorcyclists, I mean. Can’t stand ‘em. Revving their engines obnoxiously loud, recklessly weaving between cars and trucks like they own the road, dressing in those stupid leathers, thinking they’re all badass… just their whole attitude makes my blood boil.”
“Now, maybe you’re not like that. Honestly, you seem like a nice guy—just a little smug, and WAY too confident, which are both just symptoms of riding a motorcycle. So as far as I’m concerned, getting one less motorcyclist off the street can only be a good thing. Which is why by the time I’m through with you, you’ll never wanna sit on a bike again. I’ve got just one more surprise for you…”
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
It isn't until you're holding me down in this hellish seat that I get a proper sense of how powerful you are. When, finally, you shift your body weight off me and move to capturing my flailing arms, I immediately try to stand, to get myself forward and off this impaling pain - and can't. I'm fixed by something attached to... my harness?
"HHHNNGGGOOO!!"
I fight against you but you there's a click from one Everlast glove and then the other and I'm leaning forward in an oddly familiar position, the tip of that intrusion nudging at my prostate in a way that's agonising but also tantalising; as the shock of the initial penetration gradually subsides, it's starting to stir the contents of my rubber-and-leather-clad crotch.
In a fight-or-flight frenzy, I jerk and tug furiously at my hands, realising a slight rotation around a handlebar axis is the only movement available to me. When one leg is hoisted up, I try to kick out but you're already strapping it into some device and my other foot is limited to the far side of the seat, useless to reach you.
When the second leg is captured and another round of straps biting into latex and leather, the panting, growling silence of my hood is finally broken:
“There! That oughta hold ya!”
The VR feed lights up the rubbery darkness. I stop jerking my hands and feet and throwing myself around in my seat and just stare in abject disbelief.
WHAT
THE
FUCK
As the adrenaline rush starts to fade, I calm my exertions and try to take stock of my situation.
I'm on some kind of bike?
I can see the absurd leather-padded mounds of my hands, now apparently part of the contraption I'm sitting on. I'm bent forward slightly and any attempt to shuffle backwards prods my innards in a way that causes me to inhale sharply.
My collar doesn't allow me to look down enough to see the saddle but boy can I feel it.
My feet are held rigidly to a... a pedal mechanism? After a moment of kicking and wrenching at my feet, I attempt to stand up on the pedals, to raise myself off the vicious thing penetrating my rear. I quickly realise there's a chain or some such strapping my leathered buttocks down to the back of the seat.
Can't go forward, can't go back... can I potentially escape to one or other side? I'm limited by my hands apparently now anchored in front (I give them both an experimental tug then a more sustained pull) but could I lean left or right far enough to ease myself off the evil saddle-prong?
Fuck! Doing that seems to increase the sensations.
None of this makes sense. I pause for a break until the prostate spasms die down and concentrate solely on drawing long ragged breaths through my nostril-tubes. Unable to turn my neck, I glower straight ahead into the grainy monochrome murkiness, looking for you, my... is "challenger" still the right word? More like "tormentor".
Something tells me you're going to explain all of this to me in excruciating detail and - I feel an immediate spike of irritation at the thought - you're going to take great pleasure doing so. If I'm experiencing a literal pain in the arse now, I imagine it's going to be nothing compared to what's coming.
I step into your field of vision, grinning ear to ear. I clap my hands together and carry myself with the energy of someone who’s about to give a TED talk. But I’m not facing you directly—I’m facing off to the right, towards your camera, which is poised so the two of us are in frame.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome at last to the great Studini’s latest challenge: The Bike of Doom! As you can probably tell by his ostentatious outfit, he rode here to my house today on a motorcycle. Being a mechanic myself, I saw fit to make some modifications and improvements to his vehicle. Allow me to explain some of the diabolically fiendish elements that are gonna keep our little escape artist here locked up tight.”
While I speak, I walk in slow circles around the bike, continuing to cheat out towards the camera. When I’m behind you, I slap your back like a car salesman slapping the roof of a car.
“With a customized interlocking tube mechanism of my own design, his mitts have been attached to the handlebars. And thanks to the power of Everlast Powerlock technology, our little friend’s tricky fingers have been rendered completely and utterly useless.”
“The pedals are custom-designed too, with built in boots that keep one’s feet firmly planted on them at all times.”
“And last but not least, there’s the seat, which has been firmly attached to our great Studini’s ass by way of a dildo, shoved WAY up in there. He can stand up to cycle, but not enough to allow him to remove the dildo from his rear—the chain I attached earlier sees to that. Guess you can say I had him PEGGED from the moment he sat down.”
I punctuate my words by plucking the chain with my finger like a guitar string.
“Oh! I almost forgot!”
I retrieve your helmet from where it’s sitting by your clothes and plunk it roughly onto your head over the hood.
“There ya go. Safety first!”
I chuckle, knocking my fist a couple times against the helmet. I then place a hand under your chin, gripping it firmly as I bring my face down to yours, close enough that you can smell my breath through the tubes in your nostrils.
“Now, I have a little confession to make… I absolutely. Fucking. HATE. Bikers. Motorcyclists, I mean. Can’t stand ‘em. Revving their engines obnoxiously loud, recklessly weaving between cars and trucks like they own the road, dressing in those stupid leathers, thinking they’re all badass… just their whole attitude makes my blood boil.”
“Now, maybe you’re not like that. Honestly, you seem like a nice guy—just a little smug, and WAY too confident, which are both just symptoms of riding a motorcycle. So as far as I’m concerned, getting one less motorcyclist off the street can only be a good thing. Which is why by the time I’m through with you, you’ll never wanna sit on a bike again. I’ve got just one more surprise for you…”
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1135
- Joined: 6 years ago
Hmm. I figure it's gotta be something that forces him to pedal to exhaustion...
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - part 9
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
You’ve been making occasional asides to the camera but I’m initially baffled when you seem almost to skip or gambol into the role of presenter – or perhaps demonstrator.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome at last to the great Studini’s latest challenge: The Bike of Doom!”
The Bike of Doom?!
“As you can probably tell by his ostentatious outfit, he rode here to my house today on a motorcycle. Being a mechanic myself, I saw fit to make some modifications and improvements to his vehicle.”
I realise, with sudden shock, that my own motorcycle isn’t where I left it in the room. The contraption I’m locked into certainly isn’t it – you’re using “his vehicle” in a less literal sense – so where the hell has it gone? I peer into the grainy reaches of the VR field, momentarily distracted.
“Allow me to explain some of the diabolically fiendish elements that are gonna keep our little escape artist here locked up tight.”
Okay, here it comes. It’s weird being referred to in the third person, kinda humiliating, like I’m your Science Fair experiment or something.
I snort a little at the confident promise that you’re going to keep me “locked up tight” but realise snorting is pretty much the only comment I can make right now, with my own boot socks filling my mouth, held in place by a comprehensive head-wrapping of tape from which only my eyes and nostrils have been spared – and my eyes can see only what you allow me to see in the darkness of this rubber prison.
“With a customized interlocking tube mechanism of my own design, his mitts have been attached to the handlebars.”
I look down at my arms, extending out to the handlebars and reflexively try to slide them off the ends of the bars. With a grunt of displeasure, I heave on the handlebars with all my might, hoping they or the plates at the ends or even the bar itself has a weak spot.
“And thanks to the power of Everlast Powerlock technology, our little friend’s tricky fingers have been rendered completely and utterly useless.”
My plan was to try to grasp one of the mitts between my legs and haul hard enough to extricate my hand, as I did with that laced-up boxing glove years ago. Surely the fact that these gloves are already fixed to a solid point gives me an advantage in terms of leverage? I jerk, tug and haul at the offending hand-coverings, trying somehow to uncurl my fingers, to ungrip the internal tubes.
“The pedals are custom-designed too, with built in boots that keep one’s feet firmly planted on them at all times.”
Rubber squeaks against leather strapping as I do my best to kick and push against the fixing points of my shins and lower legs. I’m reminded of the rigid fibreglass boots used for skiing, the type that immobilises completely.
“And last but not least, there’s the seat, which has been firmly attached to our great Studini’s ass by way of a dildo, shoved WAY up in there. He can stand up to cycle, but not enough to allow him to remove the dildo from his rear—the chain I attached earlier sees to that. Guess you can say I had him PEGGED from the moment he sat down.”
The dildo in my ass won’t leave my fucking prostate alone but seems to extend beyond it. Flinging myself to either side achieves little other than lifting me up the intrusion a little – which, in turn, ripples the impaler against my innards.
I’m not sure what’s more painful, you twanging on that chain, jerking me back onto the dildo or that horrific pegging joke.
“Oh! I almost forgot!”
My helmet is black, full-face with a tinted visor and a load of leather-covered padding on the inside. You shove it over my rubberised head.
“There ya go. Safety first!”
Uurgh FUCK!! I growl and shake my head in protest but the helmet is on me: my nostril-tubes don’t seem impeded, my breathing's fine, but the padded interior presses the rubber of my hood even more claustrophobically to my face, fixing my jaw even more firmly and forcing the wool mouth-stuffing even more tightly in.
My peripheral vision is even more obscured – the camera on the front of the hood that’s informing my VR feed is now dimmer around the periphery – but not as dim as it would be with the visor closed. The smallest of mercies.
You fasten the chin strap as tight as you fasten every other fucking strap and rap on the exterior of my helmet like you’re knocking on a door.
“Now, I have a little confession to make… I absolutely. Fucking. HATE. Bikers. Motorcyclists, I mean. Can’t stand ‘em. Revving their engines obnoxiously loud, recklessly weaving between cars and trucks like they own the road, dressing in those stupid leathers, thinking they’re all badass… just their whole attitude makes my blood boil.”
Ah. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Now, maybe you’re not like that. Honestly, you seem like a nice guy—just a little smug, and WAY too confident, which are both just symptoms of riding a motorcycle. So as far as I’m concerned, getting one less motorcyclist off the street can only be a good thing. Which is why by the time I’m through with you, you’ll never wanna sit on a bike again. I’ve got just one more surprise for you…”
Oh holy almighty fucking fuck, what have I got myself into?
I grab what looks like a hose or tube of some kind. One end of the hose is connected to some apparatus next to the bike. The other end, I bring up to your face, letting you take a niiice long look at it. It’s clear that it’s designed to slot into the nostril-tubes of your hood.
While you’re distracted looking at that, I suddenly and without warning punch you in the gut. Not too hard—just a light jab, more surprising than anything—and almost in the same moment, I attach the hose to your nostril tubes. There’s a click as it connects, and then all of a sudden—
Your airflow stops cold. It’s as though I’ve just jammed plugs up your nose: no air is coming in or out.
I casually turn back to the camera. “Now, you may notice Studini here starting to jerk and squirm a bit. Well, if you thought all that leather and bondage gear I stuck him in looks suffocating, the hose I just attached to his mask completely cuts off his access to air. Talk about a breath-taking performance, eh?”
I pause for a beat, as if waiting for an audience to laugh. I briefly turn my head to Studini:
“The real Houdini could hold his breath for over three minutes, you know. So, this shouldn’t be much of a challenge for a ‘master escape artist’ like yourself!”
I turn back to the camera.
“But don’t worry, I’m not THAT cruel. Well, not QUITE, anyway. In a moment, I will open an air valve on the hose, restoring the Doom Biker’s access to oxygen… but here’s the kicker.”
My smile is wide and devilish, seeming much more threatening than friendly like it did when you first met me.
“He will have to begin pedalling to breathe. As long as the pedals are moving, air will be flowing. If he stops, the air stops until he starts back up again. The Doom Bike really is quite the vicious cycle, isn’t it?”
I chuckle at my own fiendish cleverness. I approach the valve on the hose, reach for it—and stop.
“Oh, silly me, my shoe’s untied…” I make a great show lacing up my shoe, taking a good fifteen, twenty seconds to do so.
“Might as well tighten up the other one while I’m at it, y’ know?”
I wink at Stu as I deliberately untie my other shoe and RE-tie it, taking my sweet time. When I finish, I take a deep relaxed sigh.
“Hmmmm… what was I doing, again?” I scratch my head, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Ohhhh that’s right! Silly me… sometimes I swear I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached to my neck. Not that you need to worry about that—with all that gear, you’re not gonna lose ANYTHING.
Finally, I turn the valve, and there’s a hiss from the apparatus.
“Better start pedallin’, boi.”
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
You’ve been making occasional asides to the camera but I’m initially baffled when you seem almost to skip or gambol into the role of presenter – or perhaps demonstrator.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome at last to the great Studini’s latest challenge: The Bike of Doom!”
The Bike of Doom?!
“As you can probably tell by his ostentatious outfit, he rode here to my house today on a motorcycle. Being a mechanic myself, I saw fit to make some modifications and improvements to his vehicle.”
I realise, with sudden shock, that my own motorcycle isn’t where I left it in the room. The contraption I’m locked into certainly isn’t it – you’re using “his vehicle” in a less literal sense – so where the hell has it gone? I peer into the grainy reaches of the VR field, momentarily distracted.
“Allow me to explain some of the diabolically fiendish elements that are gonna keep our little escape artist here locked up tight.”
Okay, here it comes. It’s weird being referred to in the third person, kinda humiliating, like I’m your Science Fair experiment or something.
I snort a little at the confident promise that you’re going to keep me “locked up tight” but realise snorting is pretty much the only comment I can make right now, with my own boot socks filling my mouth, held in place by a comprehensive head-wrapping of tape from which only my eyes and nostrils have been spared – and my eyes can see only what you allow me to see in the darkness of this rubber prison.
“With a customized interlocking tube mechanism of my own design, his mitts have been attached to the handlebars.”
I look down at my arms, extending out to the handlebars and reflexively try to slide them off the ends of the bars. With a grunt of displeasure, I heave on the handlebars with all my might, hoping they or the plates at the ends or even the bar itself has a weak spot.
“And thanks to the power of Everlast Powerlock technology, our little friend’s tricky fingers have been rendered completely and utterly useless.”
My plan was to try to grasp one of the mitts between my legs and haul hard enough to extricate my hand, as I did with that laced-up boxing glove years ago. Surely the fact that these gloves are already fixed to a solid point gives me an advantage in terms of leverage? I jerk, tug and haul at the offending hand-coverings, trying somehow to uncurl my fingers, to ungrip the internal tubes.
“The pedals are custom-designed too, with built in boots that keep one’s feet firmly planted on them at all times.”
Rubber squeaks against leather strapping as I do my best to kick and push against the fixing points of my shins and lower legs. I’m reminded of the rigid fibreglass boots used for skiing, the type that immobilises completely.
“And last but not least, there’s the seat, which has been firmly attached to our great Studini’s ass by way of a dildo, shoved WAY up in there. He can stand up to cycle, but not enough to allow him to remove the dildo from his rear—the chain I attached earlier sees to that. Guess you can say I had him PEGGED from the moment he sat down.”
The dildo in my ass won’t leave my fucking prostate alone but seems to extend beyond it. Flinging myself to either side achieves little other than lifting me up the intrusion a little – which, in turn, ripples the impaler against my innards.
I’m not sure what’s more painful, you twanging on that chain, jerking me back onto the dildo or that horrific pegging joke.
“Oh! I almost forgot!”
My helmet is black, full-face with a tinted visor and a load of leather-covered padding on the inside. You shove it over my rubberised head.
“There ya go. Safety first!”
Uurgh FUCK!! I growl and shake my head in protest but the helmet is on me: my nostril-tubes don’t seem impeded, my breathing's fine, but the padded interior presses the rubber of my hood even more claustrophobically to my face, fixing my jaw even more firmly and forcing the wool mouth-stuffing even more tightly in.
My peripheral vision is even more obscured – the camera on the front of the hood that’s informing my VR feed is now dimmer around the periphery – but not as dim as it would be with the visor closed. The smallest of mercies.
You fasten the chin strap as tight as you fasten every other fucking strap and rap on the exterior of my helmet like you’re knocking on a door.
“Now, I have a little confession to make… I absolutely. Fucking. HATE. Bikers. Motorcyclists, I mean. Can’t stand ‘em. Revving their engines obnoxiously loud, recklessly weaving between cars and trucks like they own the road, dressing in those stupid leathers, thinking they’re all badass… just their whole attitude makes my blood boil.”
Ah. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Now, maybe you’re not like that. Honestly, you seem like a nice guy—just a little smug, and WAY too confident, which are both just symptoms of riding a motorcycle. So as far as I’m concerned, getting one less motorcyclist off the street can only be a good thing. Which is why by the time I’m through with you, you’ll never wanna sit on a bike again. I’ve got just one more surprise for you…”
Oh holy almighty fucking fuck, what have I got myself into?
I grab what looks like a hose or tube of some kind. One end of the hose is connected to some apparatus next to the bike. The other end, I bring up to your face, letting you take a niiice long look at it. It’s clear that it’s designed to slot into the nostril-tubes of your hood.
While you’re distracted looking at that, I suddenly and without warning punch you in the gut. Not too hard—just a light jab, more surprising than anything—and almost in the same moment, I attach the hose to your nostril tubes. There’s a click as it connects, and then all of a sudden—
Your airflow stops cold. It’s as though I’ve just jammed plugs up your nose: no air is coming in or out.
I casually turn back to the camera. “Now, you may notice Studini here starting to jerk and squirm a bit. Well, if you thought all that leather and bondage gear I stuck him in looks suffocating, the hose I just attached to his mask completely cuts off his access to air. Talk about a breath-taking performance, eh?”
I pause for a beat, as if waiting for an audience to laugh. I briefly turn my head to Studini:
“The real Houdini could hold his breath for over three minutes, you know. So, this shouldn’t be much of a challenge for a ‘master escape artist’ like yourself!”
I turn back to the camera.
“But don’t worry, I’m not THAT cruel. Well, not QUITE, anyway. In a moment, I will open an air valve on the hose, restoring the Doom Biker’s access to oxygen… but here’s the kicker.”
My smile is wide and devilish, seeming much more threatening than friendly like it did when you first met me.
“He will have to begin pedalling to breathe. As long as the pedals are moving, air will be flowing. If he stops, the air stops until he starts back up again. The Doom Bike really is quite the vicious cycle, isn’t it?”
I chuckle at my own fiendish cleverness. I approach the valve on the hose, reach for it—and stop.
“Oh, silly me, my shoe’s untied…” I make a great show lacing up my shoe, taking a good fifteen, twenty seconds to do so.
“Might as well tighten up the other one while I’m at it, y’ know?”
I wink at Stu as I deliberately untie my other shoe and RE-tie it, taking my sweet time. When I finish, I take a deep relaxed sigh.
“Hmmmm… what was I doing, again?” I scratch my head, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Ohhhh that’s right! Silly me… sometimes I swear I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached to my neck. Not that you need to worry about that—with all that gear, you’re not gonna lose ANYTHING.
Finally, I turn the valve, and there’s a hiss from the apparatus.
“Better start pedallin’, boi.”
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1135
- Joined: 6 years ago
I was hoping it would be this but didn't want to speculate away your thunder! Literally pedaling for his life.
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
You were definitely on the money!blackbound wrote: ↑1 year ago I was hoping it would be this but didn't want to speculate away your thunder! Literally pedaling for his life.
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
Cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me! I know bikers can be annoying, but it's not fair for Stu to take the blame for every one of them!
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DeeperThanRed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 960
- Joined: 6 years ago
Steven playing to the audience is a nice excus- I mean, touch for him to remind Stu who's in charge here. While the threat of suffocation is a bit harsh, I can't help but admire how perfectly ironic the set-up is.
Stu is gonna need to do a lot of cardio just to survive so let's hope there's not more in store for our hapless escape artist.
Stu is gonna need to do a lot of cardio just to survive so let's hope there's not more in store for our hapless escape artist.
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - part 10
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
Oh sweet Jesus!
For what seems like an eternity after that gut-punch, I’m trying to breathe vacuum. Every instinct, every fibre in me aches to grab the hose, to snatch it away, restoring my air supply, but I can’t reach it with any part of my body.
Eyes starting to bulge, I shake my head as much as the collar will allow, as if shaking alone might disconnect the hose from the nostril-tubes. In desperation, I attempt to catch the loop of hose on something that might pull it loose but you’ve fed it through the front of my open helmet visor and it bobs jauntily in front of my face, curling downward to the valve or apparatus or whatever.
“HHHNGEEEEEEE!!” I beg, frantically trying to get my head turned and down far enough to trap the hose between my arm and the helmet, snag it and jerk it free. It seems to taunt me, dangling inches away but entirely out of each.
“In a moment, I will open an air valve on the hose, restoring the Doom Biker’s access to oxygen… but here’s the kicker. He will have to begin pedaling to breathe. As long as the pedals are moving, air will be flowing. If he stops, the air stops until he starts back up again. The Doom Bike really is quite the vicious cycle, isn’t it?”
That’s what I’ve got myself into: the Spin Class from Hell.
“Oh, silly me, my shoe’s untied… Might as well tighten up the other one while I’m at it, y’know?”
My lungs are burning, I’m starting to see points of light in front of my eyes. It’s a moment before I realise the high keening “HHNGOOOOOO!” wail is coming from my own throat.
“Hmmmm… what was I doing, again? Ohhhh that’s right! Silly me…sometimes I swear I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached to my neck. Not that you need to worry about that—with all that gear, you’re not gonna lose ANYTHING.”
Apart from consciousness and if the air supply stays off, my LIFE.
“Better start pedallin’, boi.”
I don’t need telling twice. A clatter of pedals
Air! Dear sweet oxygen-flavoured air! I suck a deep lungful, two lungfuls, my eyes stop streaming, the acrid taste dissipates and I’m able to think clearly again.
Okay. Fuck. What would Houdini do?
He’d panic. Anyone would panic.
No, I instruct myself. First priority: don’t panic. Panic is the enemy.
Second priority: conserve energy. So long as the pedals turn, air flows… so find the minimum amount of pedal movement that keeps the valve open.
I deliberately slow, bracing myself for the click that signals the valve closing. Okay, don’t panic. Just a little more movement until it clicks open again… and then stay at that level. Good. Fine.
Third priority: escape. Yeah, this is going to be the tough one. Breathe in that precious, beautiful air, though and think, think systematically…
How it started: accepting an apparently benign escape challenge from a friendly guy
How it’s going: strapped and locked into full gimp gear, impaled on a SAW-style death-trap, and pedalling for my literal life while a cackling motophobe makes Dad jokes about pegging
Not the best of days, then...
Avoid panic. Think systematically.
No situation is 100% escape-proof. Diabolical as it seems, there must be a weakness in your set-up and now I’ve found the minimum pedal rate to keep the oxygen flowing, I owe it to myself to examine everything fully and calmly until I find it.
Back to first principles:
Fingers.
The most useful and versatile of the escapologist’s toolkit, freeing my hands is by far the commonest way I escape. My fingers are strong and supple and I’ve worked to develop a power-grip.
Those are the upsides. The downsides? My fingers are muffled in thick latex gloves I can’t remove or slip; to free them, I have to liberate myself from the one-piece latex skin into which I’ve been zipped and padlocked – and which is also now covered by my thick bike leathers with a strap-harness padlocked on top. Did you padlock the harness? If not, is there any scope for working a strap free from its buckle? If I can undo enough of the harness-straps to wriggle out, I may be able to stand up and off the dildo impaling me where I sit. I’d have more room to hook or grasp the hose and wrench it off my nostril-tubes.
The more I think about it, the more the saddle seems a weak spot. I'm only tethered to it by a single chain, attached to the lower back of my harness...
Okay, it’s got potential but park that idea for now. Stay with hands.
Over the rubber, I’m strapped into these stupidly oversized boxing mitts that are now secured around the handlebars, able to rattle and rotate but not slide. I’ve already tried breaking the handlebars and the bike in general by hauling hard on it with all my strength. I could try that again; I just have to keep the pedals turning while I do it.
The interior of the gloves is moulded to me in some special Everlast way about which you waxed lyrical, but I do my best to uncurl my fingers, to heave at my right wrist. Can I, with a load of determined tugging, extricate my hand, slip it free? If not, is there any sign of weakness in the straps of the boxing gloves? Could they be nudged out of their buckles if rubbed against the handlebar at the right angle?
Okay, so mayyybe a small amount of potential with fingers? If I can work a wrist-strap free? Or would they remain curled around the handlebar no matter what?
(Keep pedalling…)
Let’s move on to…
Teeth.
If I can get them in reach of knots or buckles, teeth are possibly even more useful escape tools than fingers; when challengers opt to tie hands in front, that’s a direct route to freedom.
In this case? I work my jaw a little, more by way of experiment than anything else. My teeth are clamped together over a mouthful of soggy wool, however, with the cheesy aroma of a week of riding. You used an entire roll of duct tape sealing them in there then covering my entire face and head in multiple layers of duct tape, all smoothed and pressed down with your customary attention to detail. Initially, I wasn’t sure why you’d bothered with the upward taping, the strip over the bridge of the nose, the scalp-wrapping and so on; now I realise those refinements made the basic mouth-gag more secure, they anchored it so I couldn’t shift it downwards.
Not that I even had the chance to try before you were squeezing me into a hood in rubber as heavy as that of my suit. It must be another of your special creations, that combination of tech and overkill restraint. You zipped and padlocked the hood, locked it to the suit, locked a fucking collar over the locks.
Oh, and now I’ve got the padded interior of my own bike helmet squeezing my head from all sides, the chinstrap clamping my jaw ever more tightly shut.
Okay, my jaw feels set in concrete and you've comprehensively neutralised my mouth; teeth aren't the way to go.
Toes.
These are always an outside option, a very left-field way to escape. Houdini wore slip-on shoes with the express purpose of kicking them off and using his semi-prehensile feet; that’s the legend, anyway.
In this case, my feet are held behind a skin of latex but you didn’t insist I wore boots. I’d entertained hopes that I might attempt some impressive Houdini-esque unbuckling trick if I could get my toes anywhere near the lower straps of my harness, the ones going under my crotch.
(Keep pedalling!)
But no: they’re strapped and buckled into these rigid splint affairs that are, in turn, fixed to the pedals. It’s hard to get a clear view of the boot-brace-things – because in order to maintain an air supply, I have to keep my legs in constant motion – but it certainly feels like you did a number on them. I’m not going to have the luxury of using my feet in this escape.
Vision.
Not a mechanical escape tool but definitely a help in – and sometimes a shortcut to – escaping. If I can see a strap about to come unbuckled, I know to concentrate my efforts on that strap.
My vision is monochrome, dimmed and restricted peripherally but at least you haven’t removed it entirely. I’m very aware that that could change in an instant, however, with the literal flick of a switch…
Hearing.
Probably the weakest aid to escape, hearing only really comes into its own when I’m blindfolded and is most useful for keeping track of my challenger’s whereabouts, his location in the room, helping me avoid or at least anticipate nasty surprises.
In this case, my hearing is restricted by the ear buds to whatever you allow me to hear through your microphone – and, so far, that’s generally been you doing what’s starting to seem more and more like a charming psychopath routine. Hearing isn’t of much use to me here…
(KEEP PEDALLING)
Okay. I've stayed calm, I've kept the air flowing and I've worked my way through my mental checklist: fingers, teeth, toes, vision, hearing.
This bit has always felt a little like self-hypnosis - screening out distractions by going through a familiar systematic process, focusing as dispassionately as possible on potential routes of escape - but now I'm back in the room and back in the stifling, increasingly sweaty reality, it’s harder to maintain any sense of calm.
Have you been quiet all this time? Concentrating has been easier without your goading chatter.
I glance nervously into the VR gloom. Where are you? Not being able to locate you straightaway puts me immediately on edge...
Even staying at the slowest pedal speed needed to maintain airflow, any kind of exercise in what amounts to a full diving drysuit, heavy leathers, boxing gloves and bike helmet is going to sap energy and sanity.
I know I can’t keep this up indefinitely and you’ve given a blood-curdling account of what happens when I stop pedalling. I wasn’t able to read you at the start of the challenge and I’m damned if I can read you now so I don’t like to speculate on whether you’d actually let me suffocate or whether your objective in having me black out from oxygen deprivation is to create some sort of extended teachable moment on the evils of motorcycling through the medium of torturous exercise.
I decide you’re trying to stress and scare me rather than kill me but fuck it, it could be either.
I redouble my efforts to get free of this hellish arrangement, keeping the pedals turning but attempting the following:
1. I try, with all my might, to wrench a hand free. Focus on the right side, heave steadily at the wrist, twist, try to uncurl my rubber-gloved fingers inside the glove enough to squeeze and tug my hand out past the wrist-strap (I curse the fact that none of my potentially lubricating sweat is escaping the rubber suit).
2. If I manage to get a hand free, reach into the front press-studded pocket for the knife, use it to cut the hose free of the nostril-tubes then either unbuckle the harness (if not padlocked) or saw through the harness-straps (if padlocked) until I’m free of the strapping tethering me to the saddle and I can stand up off the impaler.
3. If I can’t slip a hand from the Everlast mitts, focus on the wrist-straps. Is there one on each glove? Stretch forward and try to angle them so I can use the handlebar to push a strap out of its buckle (finicky but maybe possible?) then try again to extricate a hand.
4. If there’s nothing at all doing with hands, focus on the harness strapped around me. Are the straps locked? Could any of them be worked loose? If so, I could potentially free myself from the saddle-tether and lift myself off the impaler.
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
Oh sweet Jesus!
For what seems like an eternity after that gut-punch, I’m trying to breathe vacuum. Every instinct, every fibre in me aches to grab the hose, to snatch it away, restoring my air supply, but I can’t reach it with any part of my body.
Eyes starting to bulge, I shake my head as much as the collar will allow, as if shaking alone might disconnect the hose from the nostril-tubes. In desperation, I attempt to catch the loop of hose on something that might pull it loose but you’ve fed it through the front of my open helmet visor and it bobs jauntily in front of my face, curling downward to the valve or apparatus or whatever.
“HHHNGEEEEEEE!!” I beg, frantically trying to get my head turned and down far enough to trap the hose between my arm and the helmet, snag it and jerk it free. It seems to taunt me, dangling inches away but entirely out of each.
“In a moment, I will open an air valve on the hose, restoring the Doom Biker’s access to oxygen… but here’s the kicker. He will have to begin pedaling to breathe. As long as the pedals are moving, air will be flowing. If he stops, the air stops until he starts back up again. The Doom Bike really is quite the vicious cycle, isn’t it?”
That’s what I’ve got myself into: the Spin Class from Hell.
“Oh, silly me, my shoe’s untied… Might as well tighten up the other one while I’m at it, y’know?”
My lungs are burning, I’m starting to see points of light in front of my eyes. It’s a moment before I realise the high keening “HHNGOOOOOO!” wail is coming from my own throat.
“Hmmmm… what was I doing, again? Ohhhh that’s right! Silly me…sometimes I swear I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached to my neck. Not that you need to worry about that—with all that gear, you’re not gonna lose ANYTHING.”
Apart from consciousness and if the air supply stays off, my LIFE.
“Better start pedallin’, boi.”
I don’t need telling twice. A clatter of pedals
Air! Dear sweet oxygen-flavoured air! I suck a deep lungful, two lungfuls, my eyes stop streaming, the acrid taste dissipates and I’m able to think clearly again.
Okay. Fuck. What would Houdini do?
He’d panic. Anyone would panic.
No, I instruct myself. First priority: don’t panic. Panic is the enemy.
Second priority: conserve energy. So long as the pedals turn, air flows… so find the minimum amount of pedal movement that keeps the valve open.
I deliberately slow, bracing myself for the click that signals the valve closing. Okay, don’t panic. Just a little more movement until it clicks open again… and then stay at that level. Good. Fine.
Third priority: escape. Yeah, this is going to be the tough one. Breathe in that precious, beautiful air, though and think, think systematically…
How it started: accepting an apparently benign escape challenge from a friendly guy
How it’s going: strapped and locked into full gimp gear, impaled on a SAW-style death-trap, and pedalling for my literal life while a cackling motophobe makes Dad jokes about pegging
Not the best of days, then...
Avoid panic. Think systematically.
No situation is 100% escape-proof. Diabolical as it seems, there must be a weakness in your set-up and now I’ve found the minimum pedal rate to keep the oxygen flowing, I owe it to myself to examine everything fully and calmly until I find it.
Back to first principles:
Fingers.
The most useful and versatile of the escapologist’s toolkit, freeing my hands is by far the commonest way I escape. My fingers are strong and supple and I’ve worked to develop a power-grip.
Those are the upsides. The downsides? My fingers are muffled in thick latex gloves I can’t remove or slip; to free them, I have to liberate myself from the one-piece latex skin into which I’ve been zipped and padlocked – and which is also now covered by my thick bike leathers with a strap-harness padlocked on top. Did you padlock the harness? If not, is there any scope for working a strap free from its buckle? If I can undo enough of the harness-straps to wriggle out, I may be able to stand up and off the dildo impaling me where I sit. I’d have more room to hook or grasp the hose and wrench it off my nostril-tubes.
The more I think about it, the more the saddle seems a weak spot. I'm only tethered to it by a single chain, attached to the lower back of my harness...
Okay, it’s got potential but park that idea for now. Stay with hands.
Over the rubber, I’m strapped into these stupidly oversized boxing mitts that are now secured around the handlebars, able to rattle and rotate but not slide. I’ve already tried breaking the handlebars and the bike in general by hauling hard on it with all my strength. I could try that again; I just have to keep the pedals turning while I do it.
The interior of the gloves is moulded to me in some special Everlast way about which you waxed lyrical, but I do my best to uncurl my fingers, to heave at my right wrist. Can I, with a load of determined tugging, extricate my hand, slip it free? If not, is there any sign of weakness in the straps of the boxing gloves? Could they be nudged out of their buckles if rubbed against the handlebar at the right angle?
Okay, so mayyybe a small amount of potential with fingers? If I can work a wrist-strap free? Or would they remain curled around the handlebar no matter what?
(Keep pedalling…)
Let’s move on to…
Teeth.
If I can get them in reach of knots or buckles, teeth are possibly even more useful escape tools than fingers; when challengers opt to tie hands in front, that’s a direct route to freedom.
In this case? I work my jaw a little, more by way of experiment than anything else. My teeth are clamped together over a mouthful of soggy wool, however, with the cheesy aroma of a week of riding. You used an entire roll of duct tape sealing them in there then covering my entire face and head in multiple layers of duct tape, all smoothed and pressed down with your customary attention to detail. Initially, I wasn’t sure why you’d bothered with the upward taping, the strip over the bridge of the nose, the scalp-wrapping and so on; now I realise those refinements made the basic mouth-gag more secure, they anchored it so I couldn’t shift it downwards.
Not that I even had the chance to try before you were squeezing me into a hood in rubber as heavy as that of my suit. It must be another of your special creations, that combination of tech and overkill restraint. You zipped and padlocked the hood, locked it to the suit, locked a fucking collar over the locks.
Oh, and now I’ve got the padded interior of my own bike helmet squeezing my head from all sides, the chinstrap clamping my jaw ever more tightly shut.
Okay, my jaw feels set in concrete and you've comprehensively neutralised my mouth; teeth aren't the way to go.
Toes.
These are always an outside option, a very left-field way to escape. Houdini wore slip-on shoes with the express purpose of kicking them off and using his semi-prehensile feet; that’s the legend, anyway.
In this case, my feet are held behind a skin of latex but you didn’t insist I wore boots. I’d entertained hopes that I might attempt some impressive Houdini-esque unbuckling trick if I could get my toes anywhere near the lower straps of my harness, the ones going under my crotch.
(Keep pedalling!)
But no: they’re strapped and buckled into these rigid splint affairs that are, in turn, fixed to the pedals. It’s hard to get a clear view of the boot-brace-things – because in order to maintain an air supply, I have to keep my legs in constant motion – but it certainly feels like you did a number on them. I’m not going to have the luxury of using my feet in this escape.
Vision.
Not a mechanical escape tool but definitely a help in – and sometimes a shortcut to – escaping. If I can see a strap about to come unbuckled, I know to concentrate my efforts on that strap.
My vision is monochrome, dimmed and restricted peripherally but at least you haven’t removed it entirely. I’m very aware that that could change in an instant, however, with the literal flick of a switch…
Hearing.
Probably the weakest aid to escape, hearing only really comes into its own when I’m blindfolded and is most useful for keeping track of my challenger’s whereabouts, his location in the room, helping me avoid or at least anticipate nasty surprises.
In this case, my hearing is restricted by the ear buds to whatever you allow me to hear through your microphone – and, so far, that’s generally been you doing what’s starting to seem more and more like a charming psychopath routine. Hearing isn’t of much use to me here…
(KEEP PEDALLING)
Okay. I've stayed calm, I've kept the air flowing and I've worked my way through my mental checklist: fingers, teeth, toes, vision, hearing.
This bit has always felt a little like self-hypnosis - screening out distractions by going through a familiar systematic process, focusing as dispassionately as possible on potential routes of escape - but now I'm back in the room and back in the stifling, increasingly sweaty reality, it’s harder to maintain any sense of calm.
Have you been quiet all this time? Concentrating has been easier without your goading chatter.
I glance nervously into the VR gloom. Where are you? Not being able to locate you straightaway puts me immediately on edge...
Even staying at the slowest pedal speed needed to maintain airflow, any kind of exercise in what amounts to a full diving drysuit, heavy leathers, boxing gloves and bike helmet is going to sap energy and sanity.
I know I can’t keep this up indefinitely and you’ve given a blood-curdling account of what happens when I stop pedalling. I wasn’t able to read you at the start of the challenge and I’m damned if I can read you now so I don’t like to speculate on whether you’d actually let me suffocate or whether your objective in having me black out from oxygen deprivation is to create some sort of extended teachable moment on the evils of motorcycling through the medium of torturous exercise.
I decide you’re trying to stress and scare me rather than kill me but fuck it, it could be either.
I redouble my efforts to get free of this hellish arrangement, keeping the pedals turning but attempting the following:
1. I try, with all my might, to wrench a hand free. Focus on the right side, heave steadily at the wrist, twist, try to uncurl my rubber-gloved fingers inside the glove enough to squeeze and tug my hand out past the wrist-strap (I curse the fact that none of my potentially lubricating sweat is escaping the rubber suit).
2. If I manage to get a hand free, reach into the front press-studded pocket for the knife, use it to cut the hose free of the nostril-tubes then either unbuckle the harness (if not padlocked) or saw through the harness-straps (if padlocked) until I’m free of the strapping tethering me to the saddle and I can stand up off the impaler.
3. If I can’t slip a hand from the Everlast mitts, focus on the wrist-straps. Is there one on each glove? Stretch forward and try to angle them so I can use the handlebar to push a strap out of its buckle (finicky but maybe possible?) then try again to extricate a hand.
4. If there’s nothing at all doing with hands, focus on the harness strapped around me. Are the straps locked? Could any of them be worked loose? If so, I could potentially free myself from the saddle-tether and lift myself off the impaler.
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1135
- Joined: 6 years ago
I don't think I could stay this calm. Kudos. Really can't see how he could get out...
Studini's thought process is proving him worthy of the name... if he can escape....
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - part 11
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
I watch the scene unfold with amusement, the sound of you huffing and puffing through the hose like music to my ears.
“I must apologize for the lack of air conditioning in here… I’m sure it must be getting awfully hot under all that leather and rubber. On the bright side, the airtight suit you’re in spares us from having to smell you!”
I chuckle.
“You’re like a hamster stuck running in a wheel. Goodness, I’m getting exhausted and sweaty just watching you… I’ll be right back.”
I leave for a few minutes. When I return, I’m loudly sipping on an ice-cold glass of lemonade.
“Mmm… refreshing! Would you care for some?” I mockingly hold the glass up to the front of your mask, where your mouth would be if it weren’t cemented shut under layers of tape, rubber, and helmet.
“No? You sure? You look awfully thirsty… ah well. Guess you’re getting enough to drink out of those sweaty socks you’re sucking on.”
I have to admit, credit where it’s due—you’re remaining remarkably composed. It’s easy to tell you’re deep in concentration, methodically testing your bindings one by one, working through a mental checklist to determine which parts of my setup are the most vulnerable. I catch you jerking at the handlebars, rubbing at the harness buckles with your elbows, jerking your torso around to swing the hose like an angry elephant’s trunk. I’ll have to put a stop to all these weak spots one by one… but first, I’ll see if I can’t fuck up your ability to concentrate.
First, I fiddle with the apparatus that your breathing tube is connected to. You can’t see what I’m doing from this angle, but you definitely notice a change: the air you’re breathing becomes warmer, heavier, less… fresh.
“From the way you were wiggling your toes just now, I could tell you’re missing your comfortable leather biking boots. So, I’ve taken the liberty of adjusting your air filter, so every breath you take passes through them.”
I smirk, but I’m far from finished.
“I also see you’ve gotten used to your new exercise regime already. But it wouldn’t be much of a workout if it stayed like this, would it?”
I press something on a remote, and the bike beeps.
“I just activated a high-intensity interval training program on the Bike of Doom. Now, every few minutes, it will ramp up the intensity, either by adding resistance (essentially simulating biking up a slope), or by increasing the number of revolutions per minute required to access air. So, if your air ever gets cut off, it just means you need to pedal faster! And don’t worry, the workout program includes periods of rest and recovery where the incline and speed will fall back to this base level.”
“That hood you’re wearing also tracks your heart rate and blood oxygen levels—I know, fancy, right? The information is fed to the bike, which it uses to tailor and customize your workout over time. Ensuring it will always be uncomfortable, pushing you to your limit—but never outright dangerous.”
My smirk widens.
“And… oh yeah. There’s one more feature of this bike I forgot to tell you about. You’re generating electricity by pedalling it! It’s hooked up to my power grid, so it saves me a lot on my electric bill. You’ll be down here working your ass off just so I can sit on my ass upstairs and watch the TV that you’re powering. But there’s something else that you’ll be charging as you pedal…”
With fiendish glee, I hit another button on my trusty remote—and your dildo seat begins to vibrate!! I watch and listen closely for what I’m sure will be a satisfying reaction.
My scalp started to prickle not long after you extended and elaborated your tape-gagging upwards to cover my entire head. The addition of rubber and padded leather had the sweat trickling and now, forced to pedal, I’m perspiring freely.
My suit is not just airtight but evidently watertight. In some previous challenges, my struggling generated sweat which then lubricated my bonds; on more than one occasion, the slipperiness has helped me wrench a hand free from a crucial loop of rope or piece of strapping.
This time? No such luck: my gathering perspiration is trapped in this fucker of a gimp suit: oh sure, a little might leak out the zips or at the neck and trickle into my leathers but what it’s not doing is helping my escape.
What about the tape, then? Under the helmet and rubber hood, there’s about a mile of duct tape clamped around my face and head. I understand now that you deliberately crafted that face-and-head wrapping in such a way that the tape couldn't be shifted by any amount of jaw-flexing, brow-wrinkling, nostril-flaring, or cheek-puffing, remaining tightly anchored upward, downward and around my visage but is the moisture unsticking it at all? Come onnn, Universe, give me a break!
Or did you, the motophobic mechanic, use some kind of water-resistant version with adhesive that’s impervious to blood, sweat and tears? I bet you bloody did.
You’re back, looming into view with a glass of lemonade. Instinctively, your renewed taunting makes me snarl (as much as anyone can snarl through a mouthful of wool and a wall of seamless plastic) and the wadded fabric stuffing my mouth suddenly tastes saltier, drier. The power of suggestion.
A growled “hhnggkk hngoo!” aside, I try to ignore your obvious attempts at distraction from my goal. However hard I try to shake the plugs loose, however, there’s no way to stop your mocking tone being piped directly in my ears.
“From the way you were wiggling your toes just now, I could tell you’re missing your comfortable leather biking boots. So, I’ve taken the liberty of adjusting your air filter, so every breath you take passes through them.”
UURGHH! The air is suddenly warmier, muskier, staler, seeming to catch and lodge in my nostrils. I shake and toss my helmeted head even more vigorously, trying to jerk free of the hose that's limiting and now tainting my only air supply.
“I just activated a high-intensity interval training program on the Bike of Doom…”
You smirkingly describe the hi-tech ways in which bike and hood will combine to fuck me over, and the fingers of my right hand curl, reflexively, into a fist. I’d been steadily increasing my pull on the strap of the boxing glove at what I reckoned was just the optimum angle – a gradual increase in pressure is usually more successful at slipping bonds than a sudden tug – but, right this moment, I want nothing more in the world than to PUNCH YOU SQUARE IN THE FACE.
As you gloat over my stifling, choking, sweat-soaked discomfort - powering your sodding electricity - I start to lose my composure and careful strategy. My irritation starts to spike; I stop trying to ease my hand past the strap of the glove and, instead, give it a resentful yank. Stupid fucking thing.
“But there’s something else that you’ll be charging as you pedal…”
“HHHNNNNGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!” That sudden jolt of vibration is the last Zen-shattering straw.
Finally, you get to me: I lose my cool and erupt, abruptly, into a chaos of thrashing, yanking and kicking, grunting and growling with unbridled frustration into and against my prison of tape, rubber, leather, fibreglass and EVERLAST FUCKING POWERWHATEVERTHEFUCKLOCK!
YOU FUCKERRRRRRRRRR!!!
Yep, your needling finally gets to me: my frustration boils over, the Zen-of-Houdini schtick goes out the window and I’m engulfed in pure animal rage and panic, simultaneous urges to retaliate and get the fuck out of all of this. Fight and flight.
I buck and thrash wildly in my seat (ignoring the painful vibrations), yank blindly at the gloves with all my strength and twist and kick at my pedal-tethered feet. I howl through my wool-stuffed mouth with all the volume I can muster, shaking and tossing tape, rubber and fibreglass head-prison as if it could be smashed apart by butting against… air particles?
Air. Mine has stopped! Blackness begins to cloud my vision and I start to slump…
… only to be jolted awake by a ZZZZZZZZZAP inside me, abrupt enough and unpleasant enough to shock me back to full alertness as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
Ice. Ice in your lemonade. You’re sipping from the glass (and I suffer another pang of dry mouth) as you turn from whatever you’re doing – you seem to have been fussing with the straps on my harness and gloves – obviously realising I’m awake. I squint into the dimness: there’s something glinting in your free hand…
How long was I out for?
I try to put two and two together. Your devilish alterations to the hood and bike don’t just react to heart rate and blood oxygen levels by adjusting the workout programme; if unconsciousness is detected, the dildo literally shocks me awake so I return to pedalling. Jesus!
Like a frantic automaton, I work to get those pedals moving again.
I feel more firmly attached to the seat, too. Have you taken advantage of my momentary blackout to anchor me in place even more?!
To be continued...
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
I watch the scene unfold with amusement, the sound of you huffing and puffing through the hose like music to my ears.
“I must apologize for the lack of air conditioning in here… I’m sure it must be getting awfully hot under all that leather and rubber. On the bright side, the airtight suit you’re in spares us from having to smell you!”
I chuckle.
“You’re like a hamster stuck running in a wheel. Goodness, I’m getting exhausted and sweaty just watching you… I’ll be right back.”
I leave for a few minutes. When I return, I’m loudly sipping on an ice-cold glass of lemonade.
“Mmm… refreshing! Would you care for some?” I mockingly hold the glass up to the front of your mask, where your mouth would be if it weren’t cemented shut under layers of tape, rubber, and helmet.
“No? You sure? You look awfully thirsty… ah well. Guess you’re getting enough to drink out of those sweaty socks you’re sucking on.”
I have to admit, credit where it’s due—you’re remaining remarkably composed. It’s easy to tell you’re deep in concentration, methodically testing your bindings one by one, working through a mental checklist to determine which parts of my setup are the most vulnerable. I catch you jerking at the handlebars, rubbing at the harness buckles with your elbows, jerking your torso around to swing the hose like an angry elephant’s trunk. I’ll have to put a stop to all these weak spots one by one… but first, I’ll see if I can’t fuck up your ability to concentrate.
First, I fiddle with the apparatus that your breathing tube is connected to. You can’t see what I’m doing from this angle, but you definitely notice a change: the air you’re breathing becomes warmer, heavier, less… fresh.
“From the way you were wiggling your toes just now, I could tell you’re missing your comfortable leather biking boots. So, I’ve taken the liberty of adjusting your air filter, so every breath you take passes through them.”
I smirk, but I’m far from finished.
“I also see you’ve gotten used to your new exercise regime already. But it wouldn’t be much of a workout if it stayed like this, would it?”
I press something on a remote, and the bike beeps.
“I just activated a high-intensity interval training program on the Bike of Doom. Now, every few minutes, it will ramp up the intensity, either by adding resistance (essentially simulating biking up a slope), or by increasing the number of revolutions per minute required to access air. So, if your air ever gets cut off, it just means you need to pedal faster! And don’t worry, the workout program includes periods of rest and recovery where the incline and speed will fall back to this base level.”
“That hood you’re wearing also tracks your heart rate and blood oxygen levels—I know, fancy, right? The information is fed to the bike, which it uses to tailor and customize your workout over time. Ensuring it will always be uncomfortable, pushing you to your limit—but never outright dangerous.”
My smirk widens.
“And… oh yeah. There’s one more feature of this bike I forgot to tell you about. You’re generating electricity by pedalling it! It’s hooked up to my power grid, so it saves me a lot on my electric bill. You’ll be down here working your ass off just so I can sit on my ass upstairs and watch the TV that you’re powering. But there’s something else that you’ll be charging as you pedal…”
With fiendish glee, I hit another button on my trusty remote—and your dildo seat begins to vibrate!! I watch and listen closely for what I’m sure will be a satisfying reaction.
My scalp started to prickle not long after you extended and elaborated your tape-gagging upwards to cover my entire head. The addition of rubber and padded leather had the sweat trickling and now, forced to pedal, I’m perspiring freely.
My suit is not just airtight but evidently watertight. In some previous challenges, my struggling generated sweat which then lubricated my bonds; on more than one occasion, the slipperiness has helped me wrench a hand free from a crucial loop of rope or piece of strapping.
This time? No such luck: my gathering perspiration is trapped in this fucker of a gimp suit: oh sure, a little might leak out the zips or at the neck and trickle into my leathers but what it’s not doing is helping my escape.
What about the tape, then? Under the helmet and rubber hood, there’s about a mile of duct tape clamped around my face and head. I understand now that you deliberately crafted that face-and-head wrapping in such a way that the tape couldn't be shifted by any amount of jaw-flexing, brow-wrinkling, nostril-flaring, or cheek-puffing, remaining tightly anchored upward, downward and around my visage but is the moisture unsticking it at all? Come onnn, Universe, give me a break!
Or did you, the motophobic mechanic, use some kind of water-resistant version with adhesive that’s impervious to blood, sweat and tears? I bet you bloody did.
You’re back, looming into view with a glass of lemonade. Instinctively, your renewed taunting makes me snarl (as much as anyone can snarl through a mouthful of wool and a wall of seamless plastic) and the wadded fabric stuffing my mouth suddenly tastes saltier, drier. The power of suggestion.
A growled “hhnggkk hngoo!” aside, I try to ignore your obvious attempts at distraction from my goal. However hard I try to shake the plugs loose, however, there’s no way to stop your mocking tone being piped directly in my ears.
“From the way you were wiggling your toes just now, I could tell you’re missing your comfortable leather biking boots. So, I’ve taken the liberty of adjusting your air filter, so every breath you take passes through them.”
UURGHH! The air is suddenly warmier, muskier, staler, seeming to catch and lodge in my nostrils. I shake and toss my helmeted head even more vigorously, trying to jerk free of the hose that's limiting and now tainting my only air supply.
“I just activated a high-intensity interval training program on the Bike of Doom…”
You smirkingly describe the hi-tech ways in which bike and hood will combine to fuck me over, and the fingers of my right hand curl, reflexively, into a fist. I’d been steadily increasing my pull on the strap of the boxing glove at what I reckoned was just the optimum angle – a gradual increase in pressure is usually more successful at slipping bonds than a sudden tug – but, right this moment, I want nothing more in the world than to PUNCH YOU SQUARE IN THE FACE.
As you gloat over my stifling, choking, sweat-soaked discomfort - powering your sodding electricity - I start to lose my composure and careful strategy. My irritation starts to spike; I stop trying to ease my hand past the strap of the glove and, instead, give it a resentful yank. Stupid fucking thing.
“But there’s something else that you’ll be charging as you pedal…”
“HHHNNNNGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!” That sudden jolt of vibration is the last Zen-shattering straw.
Finally, you get to me: I lose my cool and erupt, abruptly, into a chaos of thrashing, yanking and kicking, grunting and growling with unbridled frustration into and against my prison of tape, rubber, leather, fibreglass and EVERLAST FUCKING POWERWHATEVERTHEFUCKLOCK!
YOU FUCKERRRRRRRRRR!!!
Yep, your needling finally gets to me: my frustration boils over, the Zen-of-Houdini schtick goes out the window and I’m engulfed in pure animal rage and panic, simultaneous urges to retaliate and get the fuck out of all of this. Fight and flight.
I buck and thrash wildly in my seat (ignoring the painful vibrations), yank blindly at the gloves with all my strength and twist and kick at my pedal-tethered feet. I howl through my wool-stuffed mouth with all the volume I can muster, shaking and tossing tape, rubber and fibreglass head-prison as if it could be smashed apart by butting against… air particles?
Air. Mine has stopped! Blackness begins to cloud my vision and I start to slump…
… only to be jolted awake by a ZZZZZZZZZAP inside me, abrupt enough and unpleasant enough to shock me back to full alertness as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
Ice. Ice in your lemonade. You’re sipping from the glass (and I suffer another pang of dry mouth) as you turn from whatever you’re doing – you seem to have been fussing with the straps on my harness and gloves – obviously realising I’m awake. I squint into the dimness: there’s something glinting in your free hand…
How long was I out for?
I try to put two and two together. Your devilish alterations to the hood and bike don’t just react to heart rate and blood oxygen levels by adjusting the workout programme; if unconsciousness is detected, the dildo literally shocks me awake so I return to pedalling. Jesus!
Like a frantic automaton, I work to get those pedals moving again.
I feel more firmly attached to the seat, too. Have you taken advantage of my momentary blackout to anchor me in place even more?!
To be continued...
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
-
privateandrews
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 174
- Joined: 4 years ago
like this story alot.
-
Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
Vicious Cycle - finale
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
“Heyyy, you’re back! Glad to see that failsafe works…in fact, you might say it works SHOCKINGLY well!”
I chuckle as I tend to the pedalling gimp, amused by the way he suddenly jolted awake.
“Trying to slack off on the job? We can’t have that! Don’t worry, after every 8-hour exercise cycle, you’ll receive an 8-hour resting phase where your visor will be powered off, and you won’t have to pedal to breathe. You can use that time to rest, recover, and do anything else you please! It’s your “free” time! Time when you’ll be “free” to sit there and stew or doze off and dream about when you used to speed down the open road, feeling the cool breeze whipping your face, so wild and boundless.”
I lean in close enough to where you could smell my breath—if you could smell anything other than your own boots, that is.
“You gotta admit, it’s a pretty ingenious setup, right? After this, you’ll never be able to ride a bike, or anything even nearly resembling one, without being reminded of this ordeal. You won’t be able to put on your helmet or leathers without recalling how utterly STIFLING it felt to be STUCK like this, drenched in sweat, your asshole throbbing. And voilà! I’ve done the world a favor by removing a pompous, overconfident biker from the streets.”
I pat the captive’s helmet-armoured cheeks.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed a few little additions I made to your set-up while you took your nap. First off, I noticed you yanking and tugging at your wrists, trying to slip your hands free of the gloves. Nothing a little hot glue couldn’t fix!”
I brandish a glue gun, twirling it in my hand and blowing over the top of it like a cowboy after a successful high-noon standoff.
“None of it contacted your bare skin—how could it? All your skin’s sealed away—but I think you’ll find your gloves pretty thoroughly fused to the handlebars now, and said gloves equally fused to your wrists.”
I place my hand over yours and give it a squeeze while I wink at you.
“And oh yeah, all your squirming earlier made me remember ANOTHER thing that annoys me about motorcycles: no seatbelts! I swear, bikers like you are as much a danger to yourselves as others… but not to worry! I went ahead and made sure you’ll be NICE and safe by strapping you in more properly! I’ve wrapped your harness straps down the sides of your seat, around the bottom, and back up the opposite side. I cinched them so tight, your ass might as well be fused to that seat. And I used a couple chains ‘n’ padlocks to hold the whole thing together.”
I flick the new locks, making a metallic clink. “They’re the same model as the ones I used earlier to attach your hood. In fact, all of the locks use the same key!”
I hold up a small brass-colored key on the end of a chain. I hold it in front of your face and swing it gently side to side, like a hypnotist’s pendulum.
“I bet your slippery escape artist fingers are just itching to get a hold of this. Or maybe just itching in general—that latex can get quite itchy when it’s damp with sweat!—but I digress. I don’t trust myself not to lose such a tiny key, but since you’re going nowhere in a hurry, I figure you can just hold onto it for me.”
With that, I begin fiddling with the top of your helmet, attaching a device there that looks a bit like a miniature fishing rod… by the time I’m finished, the rod is alluringly dangling the key directly in front of your visor, in the dead center of your field of vision.
“There! I thought that might help motivate you, like how jockeys can encourage their mules with a carrot. When you’re feeling tired, just imagine you’re pedalling towards that key! You’re aaaaalmost there! Oh, and on the subject of safety… it doesn’t seem wise to let you keep that blade in your pocket. Trade you for the key!”
I slip the knife out of your pocket, unfold it and, with a movement that’s alarmingly quick and practiced, I bring the blade down forcefully in the exact center of the handlebars, where it sticks.
“There, that seems like a KNIFE place for it.”
I chuckle, then turn my attention back towards your camera.
“Well, this is QUITE the fiendish pickle our hero has found himself in this time. How do YOU think the great Studini will make it out of this one? Leave your thoughts in the comments! Not that he’ll be able to see them, hehehe. The stream will continue for as long as it takes him to escape… or until the camera’s battery dies. Whichever comes first. In the meantime, all this binding up has made me work up a sweat! I think I’ll go take a niiice refreshing dip in my pool… I’ll check up on ol’ Stu here afterwards. Catch ya later!”
My rubbered fingers are now cemented into the Everlast gloves, the gloves cemented to the handlebar, my ass is cinched and locked tight onto the dildo, my blade is out of reach and the literal key to my freedom dances an inch or two in front of my face, so inaccessible it might as well be on the surface of Pluto.
I choke back a sob of purest despair.
10 days later
For Stu, life settled into a predictable routine. 8 hours on, 8 hours off. He quickly learned that the “off” hours also meant his visor and earbuds were turned off, leaving him to languish in almost complete sensory deprivation until it was time to pedal again.
Sustenance came in the form of occasional “feeding times” that would happen during the “off” hours. The helmet was temporarily removed, and the front of the hood unzipped to insert a tube into Stu’s mouth (after spitting out the socks, of course). Through this tube, Stu received water and a nutrient-rich paste that tasted so bitter, it almost made him long for the taste of socks. This longing would quickly be answered, as Steven would remove the feeding tube and tape a “fresh” pair of his own socks in its place before zipping and locking the hood and collar back up. This almost always came with a condescending pat on both cheeks.
Body water intake and loss were balanced by the suit – and no-one seriously wants to know the gory details of flushing out the rubber (but temporary sedation was involved).
For his part, Steven began converting the garage into a man-cave. Among the new decorations were a reclining chair, a television set (complete with video game console), a mini fridge, and an electric fan that slowly rotated back and forth. All of this was set up within Stu’s view, and Steven never missed a chance to remind his living battery that it was his tireless pedalling that powered the devices of his luxurious comfort. The icy cold beers that Stu’s lips couldn’t touch, the cool and refreshing breeze from the fan that his suffocating skin couldn’t feel… the chair even had a massage function that Steven enjoyed often.
“Y’know, it’s funny how a power source can be so POWERLESS at the same time. You’re really cutting down on my electric bill. Keep it up, and I may just let you stay like this for good.”
Steven grinned. “Studini doesn’t quite suit you anymore, does it? We oughta add a ‘C’ and a ‘K’ to your name, Stu. Because you’re just fuckin’ STUCK.”
Pat, pat, pat.
The End
(Co-written with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]: my character's narration is in black, his is in blue.)
“Heyyy, you’re back! Glad to see that failsafe works…in fact, you might say it works SHOCKINGLY well!”
I chuckle as I tend to the pedalling gimp, amused by the way he suddenly jolted awake.
“Trying to slack off on the job? We can’t have that! Don’t worry, after every 8-hour exercise cycle, you’ll receive an 8-hour resting phase where your visor will be powered off, and you won’t have to pedal to breathe. You can use that time to rest, recover, and do anything else you please! It’s your “free” time! Time when you’ll be “free” to sit there and stew or doze off and dream about when you used to speed down the open road, feeling the cool breeze whipping your face, so wild and boundless.”
I lean in close enough to where you could smell my breath—if you could smell anything other than your own boots, that is.
“You gotta admit, it’s a pretty ingenious setup, right? After this, you’ll never be able to ride a bike, or anything even nearly resembling one, without being reminded of this ordeal. You won’t be able to put on your helmet or leathers without recalling how utterly STIFLING it felt to be STUCK like this, drenched in sweat, your asshole throbbing. And voilà! I’ve done the world a favor by removing a pompous, overconfident biker from the streets.”
I pat the captive’s helmet-armoured cheeks.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed a few little additions I made to your set-up while you took your nap. First off, I noticed you yanking and tugging at your wrists, trying to slip your hands free of the gloves. Nothing a little hot glue couldn’t fix!”
I brandish a glue gun, twirling it in my hand and blowing over the top of it like a cowboy after a successful high-noon standoff.
“None of it contacted your bare skin—how could it? All your skin’s sealed away—but I think you’ll find your gloves pretty thoroughly fused to the handlebars now, and said gloves equally fused to your wrists.”
I place my hand over yours and give it a squeeze while I wink at you.
“And oh yeah, all your squirming earlier made me remember ANOTHER thing that annoys me about motorcycles: no seatbelts! I swear, bikers like you are as much a danger to yourselves as others… but not to worry! I went ahead and made sure you’ll be NICE and safe by strapping you in more properly! I’ve wrapped your harness straps down the sides of your seat, around the bottom, and back up the opposite side. I cinched them so tight, your ass might as well be fused to that seat. And I used a couple chains ‘n’ padlocks to hold the whole thing together.”
I flick the new locks, making a metallic clink. “They’re the same model as the ones I used earlier to attach your hood. In fact, all of the locks use the same key!”
I hold up a small brass-colored key on the end of a chain. I hold it in front of your face and swing it gently side to side, like a hypnotist’s pendulum.
“I bet your slippery escape artist fingers are just itching to get a hold of this. Or maybe just itching in general—that latex can get quite itchy when it’s damp with sweat!—but I digress. I don’t trust myself not to lose such a tiny key, but since you’re going nowhere in a hurry, I figure you can just hold onto it for me.”
With that, I begin fiddling with the top of your helmet, attaching a device there that looks a bit like a miniature fishing rod… by the time I’m finished, the rod is alluringly dangling the key directly in front of your visor, in the dead center of your field of vision.
“There! I thought that might help motivate you, like how jockeys can encourage their mules with a carrot. When you’re feeling tired, just imagine you’re pedalling towards that key! You’re aaaaalmost there! Oh, and on the subject of safety… it doesn’t seem wise to let you keep that blade in your pocket. Trade you for the key!”
I slip the knife out of your pocket, unfold it and, with a movement that’s alarmingly quick and practiced, I bring the blade down forcefully in the exact center of the handlebars, where it sticks.
“There, that seems like a KNIFE place for it.”
I chuckle, then turn my attention back towards your camera.
“Well, this is QUITE the fiendish pickle our hero has found himself in this time. How do YOU think the great Studini will make it out of this one? Leave your thoughts in the comments! Not that he’ll be able to see them, hehehe. The stream will continue for as long as it takes him to escape… or until the camera’s battery dies. Whichever comes first. In the meantime, all this binding up has made me work up a sweat! I think I’ll go take a niiice refreshing dip in my pool… I’ll check up on ol’ Stu here afterwards. Catch ya later!”
My rubbered fingers are now cemented into the Everlast gloves, the gloves cemented to the handlebar, my ass is cinched and locked tight onto the dildo, my blade is out of reach and the literal key to my freedom dances an inch or two in front of my face, so inaccessible it might as well be on the surface of Pluto.
I choke back a sob of purest despair.
10 days later
For Stu, life settled into a predictable routine. 8 hours on, 8 hours off. He quickly learned that the “off” hours also meant his visor and earbuds were turned off, leaving him to languish in almost complete sensory deprivation until it was time to pedal again.
Sustenance came in the form of occasional “feeding times” that would happen during the “off” hours. The helmet was temporarily removed, and the front of the hood unzipped to insert a tube into Stu’s mouth (after spitting out the socks, of course). Through this tube, Stu received water and a nutrient-rich paste that tasted so bitter, it almost made him long for the taste of socks. This longing would quickly be answered, as Steven would remove the feeding tube and tape a “fresh” pair of his own socks in its place before zipping and locking the hood and collar back up. This almost always came with a condescending pat on both cheeks.
Body water intake and loss were balanced by the suit – and no-one seriously wants to know the gory details of flushing out the rubber (but temporary sedation was involved).
For his part, Steven began converting the garage into a man-cave. Among the new decorations were a reclining chair, a television set (complete with video game console), a mini fridge, and an electric fan that slowly rotated back and forth. All of this was set up within Stu’s view, and Steven never missed a chance to remind his living battery that it was his tireless pedalling that powered the devices of his luxurious comfort. The icy cold beers that Stu’s lips couldn’t touch, the cool and refreshing breeze from the fan that his suffocating skin couldn’t feel… the chair even had a massage function that Steven enjoyed often.
“Y’know, it’s funny how a power source can be so POWERLESS at the same time. You’re really cutting down on my electric bill. Keep it up, and I may just let you stay like this for good.”
Steven grinned. “Studini doesn’t quite suit you anymore, does it? We oughta add a ‘C’ and a ‘K’ to your name, Stu. Because you’re just fuckin’ STUCK.”
Pat, pat, pat.
The End
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.
Wow, 10 days in and still no escape for Stu. Sounds like he's stuck indefinitely until Steven gets board. Though since he's saving money on the electric bill by having Stu produce electricity for him, I doubt he'll get bored anytime soon.
An over the top bondage situation but that's one of the best things about fantasy, our minds can run wild!
An over the top bondage situation but that's one of the best things about fantasy, our minds can run wild!
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1135
- Joined: 6 years ago
Damn, what a wild ride.
(exits hastily, to booing)
But geariously, forks... another great tale of inescapable bondage. It's inspired me to write my own "overkill" story which I hope to post at some point.
(exits hastily, to booing)
But geariously, forks... another great tale of inescapable bondage. It's inspired me to write my own "overkill" story which I hope to post at some point.
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DeeperThanRed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 960
- Joined: 6 years ago
Steven really thinks of everything, doesn't he? Stu is quite literally objectified into being his power source, as well as a source of entertainment, I presume. His chances of escape seem slim, though I wonder if his audience didn't notice anything was amiss...
Kudos to both writers, this was a really creative and unique twist on the escape artist formula and a great treat for leather biker enjoyers!
Kudos to both writers, this was a really creative and unique twist on the escape artist formula and a great treat for leather biker enjoyers!
25-year-old bondage enthusiast who likes cute guys, underwear, and bondage, preferably together.
You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
You can reach my list of written work here: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=38808#p38808
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
The environmentally-friendly objective makes it a virtuous cycle.
Great story, the back and forth between the characters works fine. Congrats to the writers!
Great story, the back and forth between the characters works fine. Congrats to the writers!
What an interesting fate for poor Stu! A great little fantasy! I also wouldn't mind seeing the "what ifs" of the other two poll options!
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Guardianbound
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 700
- Joined: 2 years ago
Thank you for this, this is a great read.
Awesome story
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Straitjacketed
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 348
- Joined: 5 years ago
- Location: UK
- Contact:
[mention]privateandrews[/mention]:
[mention]Red89[/mention]:
[mention]blackbound[/mention]:
[mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]:
The live-streaming to an audience element was kind of thrown in there to up the stakes and the potential humiliation. As you know, as one of my original collaborators on a version of this scenario, the presence of onlookers makes it hard for Stu to back out without losing face. I really need to get my act together and post the escape challenge story we co-wrote together: it was interesting how your comparatively kind, considerate captor contrasted with Steven's devilishness - while constructing just as seamless a predicament.
[mention]Bondwriter[/mention]:
[mention]gag1195[/mention]:
[mention]Guardianbound[/mention]:
[mention]lowlowlow[/mention]:
Thank you, man. I always love feedback from you.like this story alot.
[mention]Red89[/mention]:
Oh God yeah, in real life, this would be horrific, probably unendurable. As a fantasy, it's sexy bondage overkill.Wow, 10 days in and still no escape for Stu. Sounds like he's stuck indefinitely until Steven gets board. Though since he's saving money on the electric bill by having Stu produce electricity for him, I doubt he'll get bored anytime soon.
An over the top bondage situation but that's one of the best things about fantasy, our minds can run wild!
[mention]blackbound[/mention]:
You certainly deserve punishment for those terrible puns...Damn, what a wild ride.
(exits hastily, to booing)
But geariously, forks... another great tale of inescapable bondage. It's inspired me to write my own "overkill" story which I hope to post at some point.
[mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention]:
And those who, like Steven, absolutely hate leather bikers!Steven really thinks of everything, doesn't he? Stu is quite literally objectified into being his power source, as well as a source of entertainment, I presume. His chances of escape seem slim, though I wonder if his audience didn't notice anything was amiss...
Kudos to both writers, this was a really creative and unique twist on the escape artist formula and a great treat for leather biker enjoyers!
The live-streaming to an audience element was kind of thrown in there to up the stakes and the potential humiliation. As you know, as one of my original collaborators on a version of this scenario, the presence of onlookers makes it hard for Stu to back out without losing face. I really need to get my act together and post the escape challenge story we co-wrote together: it was interesting how your comparatively kind, considerate captor contrasted with Steven's devilishness - while constructing just as seamless a predicament.
[mention]Bondwriter[/mention]:
Aww, thanks! High praise coming from you!The environmentally-friendly objective makes it a virtuous cycle.
Great story, the back and forth between the characters works fine. Congrats to the writers!
[mention]gag1195[/mention]:
I've run this basic role-play scenario with several people and some of those *have* played out in ways closer to the other "what ifs". If there's an interest in a sort of Adventures of Studini series, I may rework one or two of those the way I did with [mention]5T3V3N[/mention]'s contribution. If I did, Stu would come across as a distinctly rubbish escapologist! Luckily, his levels of self-delusion are high enough for him to persevere regardless.What an interesting fate for poor Stu! A great little fantasy! I also wouldn't mind seeing the "what ifs" of the other two poll options!
[mention]Guardianbound[/mention]:
Loving that you enjoyed it!Thank you for this, this is a great read.
[mention]lowlowlow[/mention]:
Thanks, I really do appreciate it.Awesome story
If M/M overkill bondage in stupidly excessive amounts of gear is your thing as well as mine, here's a list of my TUG stories.